


Escalation

by sburbanite



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Dating under the pretext of checking up on the Antichrist, Dialogue Heavy, First Kiss, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Slow Burn, Vignettes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-10-01 18:36:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20367592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sburbanite/pseuds/sburbanite
Summary: "In the background Crowley and Aziraphale met on the tops of buses, and in art galleries, and at concerts, compared notes, and smiled."The meetings were meant to be about discussing Warlock's progress, but Aziraphale finds himself drawn ever closer to Crowley as the world heads toward its end. It doesn't help that they both keep choosing increasingly romantic meeting places.





	Escalation

It was all very clandestine to begin with. After Warlock outgrew Nanny, she and Brother Francis were quietly (read: noisily, with much kicking and screaming from a seven-year-old Antichrist who really was old enough to know better) replaced with tutors of appropriate allegiances and Crowley and Aziraphale returned, finally free of the tyranny of false teeth and hair curlers, to their lives. They got reports now; curtly typed documents from Crowley's agent and tightly scrawled letters from Aziraphale's. It wasn't enough for either of them, really. After caring for Warlock through his terrible twos, through potty training and learning to read, Aziraphale supposed it was impossible not to get attached. It was only natural. As they rode aimlessly around London on the top of the number 42 bus, he deliberately didn't question whether it was natural for a demon to look slightly weepy over the news that the young Antichrist had thrown both an epic tantrum and several pieces of expensive china at his father. 

"That's my boy," he whispered, so quietly Aziraphale barely caught it over the sound of the traffic.

He didn't comment; best not to.

"So, same time next month?" Aziraphale asked, folding his agent's report away in his jacket.

"Uh, yeah, sure," Crowley said, looking balefully out of the window. 

"Shall we do the bus again, or somewhere a little more, um," Aziraphale lifted his foot, which was sticky with someone's discarded chewing gum, "sanitary."

"I dunno. You pick. A café or something."

Aziraphale nodded. He left Crowley alone with his thoughts, sitting on the other side of the bus and in a different world entirely. 

"It'll all work out in the end," he said, smiling weakly across the aisle, "he'll be fine once he's settled. His parents are...fine people."

Crowley made a dismissive sound and muttered something under his breath. Aziraphale had a feeling that if he'd heard it it would've made his ears burn. 

"His mother is, at least. And his father's away most of the time. Thank Heaven for small mercies, eh?"

"Mmm. Thank someone, anyway."

Crowley pressed the stop button and swung himself sinuously to his feet. It was hypnotic, the way his hips moved to keep him upright as the bus swerved through the streets. Aziraphale tried not to be mesmerized by the flash of pale skin where his t-shirt rode up. He wasn't entirely successful. 

"See ya, angel. You've got my number, let me know when and where."

The bus slowed to a halt in a suburban street; all leafy trees and long driveways. It wasn't anywhere near the bookshop, and Aziraphale couldn't imagine it being close to Crowley's flat. The flat he knew Crowley had but had never seen. The demon rode the wave of inertia down the aisle and disappeared down the stairs with a wave that someone who didn't know him might've described as cheery. Aziraphale did know him.

He sighed and watched London go by as the bus wound its way back to Soho. It didn't usually go to Soho, but it would today. After all, Aziraphale was suddenly feeling very, very tired.

***

"I said a café, angel. This is a restaurant."

Aziraphale spread his napkin out over his knees, avoiding making eye contact with Crowley's sunglasses.

"Nonsense. It's one of those, what are they called again? Brunch bars, I believe. Very modern."

Crowley leaned across the table and nabbed Aziraphale's menu. 

"There's a set menu for the evening.  _ Five _ courses, would you look at that."

Aziraphale snatched it back testily.

"Do be quiet, you. They got a rather good write up in the Times, if you must know. It's not like I get the opportunity to eat out with anyone else."

Crowley snorted, amused.

"I thought you had lots of people to fraternise with," he said, and Aziraphale choked on his water.

"Shit," Crowley said, clapping him on the back as he coughed and spluttered, "sorry, sorry. I shouldn't have--"

"--No, no, it's fine." Aziraphale breathed heavily for a few seconds until he remembered he didn't have to. "It's all, er, water under the bridge, dear boy. Really."

Crowley nodded. He sat up just a little straighter in his chair than before, though, and Aziraphale had known him for long to know that meant he was uncomfortable.

"So," Aziraphale said, pretending to look at the menu, "what has our young charge been up to recently?"

Crowley grinned, relaxing instantly. He pulled out a report from his agent and flourished it dramatically.

"Well, and I quote, "Warlock is an insufferable menace. He is lazy, undisciplined, and he keeps hiding my pens. Last week he left a partially decomposed frog in my desk..." 

Crowley's face lit up as he read the list of mischief the boy had been causing this month. Aziraphale was pleased to see that in the absence of his father, he seemed to have directed his ire at his tutors rather than at his mother. It all seemed like regular human child behaviour, if he was being honest. Aziraphale had never met a child who was above torturing an adult they didn't like. Nothing to be worried about, Antichrist-wise, and Crowley was obviously proud. Aziraphale allowed himself a soft little smile at how animated he was, his eyes shining behind his sunglasses.

"What about on your end, any spontaneous act of charity or doing the dishes without being asked?"

"Hmm?" Aziraphale said.

"The report, angel. Are you listening? You were miles away."

"Oh, yes," he swallowed, "of course. Not much to report. His tomato plants are doing well, apparently. Better than when I was there, anyway."

Crowley laughed, his face crinkling fondly around the eyes. 

"You never could garden worth a damn. You're too nice. Have to put the fear of God into them. Or fear of  _ you _ , preferably."

"Like I told you, I felt foolish shouting at inanimate plant life. It's not possible for plants to feel fear!"

"Not with that attitude."

"Can I take your orders, sirs?" 

The waiter has clearly been hovering, waiting in the literal sense for a break in the conversation. Aziraphale ordered for them both, eggs Florentine followed by walnut cake and an Earl Grey for him, and a cappuccino for Crowley, who liked to pretend he was the sort of person who drank espresso but always made a face when he tried it.

"So. That's business over with." Crowley relaxed into his usual slouch.

"Yes. How have you been, my dear? It's been awfully quiet at the bookshop without you stalking around after a seven-year-old."

"Got used to having me around, did you, dearie?" Crowley trilled, in his best Scottish brogue. 

"Quite," Aziraphale said, sarcastically.

The food was delicious, although not quite as good as the Times had led him to expect. Still, Aziraphale thought, deep in the part of his brain where he kept the truth filed carefully away, at least the company had been wonderful. 

And he didn't regret plumping for a proper meal over a quick bite at a greasy spoon in the slightest. There might only be so many years left, after all.

***

The phone had been ringing in Aziraphale's bookshop for quite some time, but the angel had managed to ignore it. The binding of an extremely fragile, extremely rare illuminated Bible had begun to crumble, and the whole thing was about to fall apart under his fingers. It couldn't have been the bookshop, could it? Had it been too damp? Too dry? In his heart he knew the book was just old, and that the glue the monks had used was never designed to last for hundreds of years. Very carefully, he used a small brush to paint fresh glue into the cracks and then settled himself to hold it until it was dry. 

The phone rang again. And again. Eventually Aziraphale waved it quiet and lost himself in the quiet meditation of a difficult repair done perfectly.

The phone could be silenced, but the very angry demon barrelling through the shop's locked door could not. 

"What the Hell, angel? We were supposed to meet in St James's _two_ _hours_ ago. I called you about ten times, didn't you hear the phone?"

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop through the floor. 

Their monthly meeting. He'd forgotten.

"Oh, oh I'm so sorry! I got distracted, my dear. Can you forgive me?"

Crowley deflated, sauntering over to throw himself down on the overstuffed sofa Aziraphale had bought expressly for that purpose. Crowley had a tendency to sprawl, which wasn't ideal in an environment filled with irreplaceable, precariously stacked literature. As a demon containment system it worked exactly as intended.

"Ah, It's alright. Did some target practice with the ducks. I think they're getting better at dodging. Got any wine?"

"Of course, dear, you know where it is. I'm afraid I can't get up, I have to hold this in place."

Crowley opened the little cupboard next to the sofa and pulled out a couple of bottles. 

"Red or... slightly older red?"

"Oooh, the older one, please. I've been saving that one for when I have company."

Aziraphale looked up from his repair work and held out a hand for the glass Crowley was pouring. The glow from Aziraphale's little repair lamp filled the room with warm yellow light and made Crowley's hair glow like burnished copper. The demon was smiling, radiating something dangerously close to affection.

"I'm company, am I?" He said.

"Well, yes," Aziraphale said, taking a long drink and deliberately avoiding looking at Crowley's smile, "you're the only one who visits. Can you imagine Gabriel or Michael popping by for drinks?" He screwed his face up. "Doesn't bear thinking about."

The glue was taking an awfully long time to dry, so he helped it along with a little miracle. Miracling the whole thing was cheating, of course, but a little nudge here and there was different.

"Pfft." Crowley said, mirroring the expression of disgust.

Crowley knocked back his wine and poured another. He gestured for Aziraphale's glass and topped it up.

"Shall we bother with the reports before we get sloshed or just call this one a washout?"

"Oh, bugger it. Let's reschedule shall we? I'm not feeling it today, my dear."

"Yeah, alright," Crowley said, stretching out luxuriantly on the sofa, legs slung over one arm and head against the other, "but next time don't stand me up, OK? I look like a prat hanging about by myself, and who knows what trouble I might get into. I'm pretty sure I broke up at least three couples today."

Aziraphale gave him a look. He held up his hands defensively, the very picture of demonic innocence.

"They already wanted to, I just gave them a little push in the right direction, that's all. Anyway, next time I'll pick somewhere too interesting for you to forget, just to be on the safe side."

The idea of Crowley planning a day out somewhere interesting gave Aziraphale a little flutter of excitement in his chest, a secret thrill at the thought of Crowley taking him somewhere nice. Maybe he'd pick him up in the Bentley, which in Aziraphale's imagination had its speed limited to seventy miles per hour, thirty in a built-up area. It was one of those thoughts he was never, under any circumstances, allowed to have.

After all, Crowley had tried to offer him a lift before, and look how that turned out. No, they were safer like this, their lives touching furtively together in their little meeting places and then pushing apart. The bookshop was alright, the bookshop didn't count because it was Aziraphale's safe place. It was so heavily warded Hell couldn't get within a mile of it, and Heaven hadn't seen fit to visit Earth for centuries.

Here at least, Crowley was safe.

The only problem with meeting at the bookshop was that was where the wine lived, and that meant they never actually got anything  _ done _ .

"So, angel," Crowley was saying, "I heard this mad thing about bees the other day, did you know they dance for each other?"

"What, like a waltz? Bees doing a teeny tiny two-step? They're insects, dear boy. They barely have brains, that doesn't sound right."

  
  
  



End file.
